


bakes the heart grow fonder

by wonthetrade



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, an ode to baked goods, background stromarner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonthetrade/pseuds/wonthetrade
Summary: Connor tries five complicated-ish pastries to woo Jack, and (instead) discovers the one simple way to her heart.
Relationships: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
Comments: 35
Kudos: 252





	bakes the heart grow fonder

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Standards apply. If you or someone you know is mentioned in the tags, please click out of this window for your own mental health. 
> 
> 2) We know this is not a GB fic. Spoiler alert: we're struggling. We appreciate your patience at this time. We're getting there.
> 
> 3) This is Jo's not so subtle ode to both the Great British Bake-off, and an on-going diatribe on the minutiae of the pastry world. Bonus points to those of you who can flag the rant she's literally gone on in real life. Jo's love language is also baking, because what are words, really.

_ Bacon cheddar chive scone _

There’s a regular who comes through  _ Sugar + Beans  _ like clockwork a few times a week - 7:00 am on the nose, but sometimes 7:10 if she’s a little late. She walks with purpose, pushing through the doors and striding up to the counter like it’s just another stepping stone on her way to work, and it probably is.

Connor just hopes it’s a really nice stepping stone. She never seems to complain about her coffee, at least. She’s there often enough that Mitch and Clarissa have teased her name out of her (Jack, so Connor doesn’t have to call her The Regular in his head) and, well. Tease her. Because they’re Mitch and Clarissa.

“Sup, Jack,” Mitch greets her like the dumbass frat boy he pretends to be, already getting her order ready. “You look more ready to kill someone today than usual, what’s up?”

“Toaster broke.” It comes out half snarl, half grunt, the anger directed towards the universe and her toaster in general, rather than Mitch for asking. “No breakfast.”

Mitch’s eyebrows wing up and he sends a not so subtle glance over his shoulder at Connor, who is now frozen behind the display case. Jack never orders any food with her coffee, and he’d be lying if it doesn’t bother him a little.

(“What do you mean, a little? You full on pout every single time she walks away without something, even if Mitchy tries to wheedle her into it,” Dylan snorted last week. Whatever.)

“ _ Well _ ,” he drawls out. “We do happen to have a pretty okay pastry chef if you’ve skipped breakfast. What do you recommend, Davo?”

Her brows draw together even as she drifts in front of Connor, already eyeing the morning’s offerings. “I couldn’t-”

But Connor’s already snagging a bacon cheddar chive scone and bagging it. It’s heavy on thick-cut hickory smoked bacon from the butcher shop down the street, sharp British cheddar from the deli a block away, and chives from the farmer’s market because he doesn’t believe half-assing things. “On the house,” he says, hoping it comes out confident and not a mumble. “Just let me know what you think.”

“Davo likes constructive criticism,” Mitch pipes up, because he’s a little shit. “So be sure to have a five page paper ready the next time you come in.”

Connor would kill him if it weren’t for the fact that Clarissa can’t make coffee by herself and Dylan would kill him for killing his boyfriend. Then  _ Sugar + Beans  _ would crumble (no pun intended).

He’d probably never see Jack again, that’s for sure.

Jack takes a long sip from her cup (a reusable Boston Bruins one - nice to know she isn’t perfect), eyeing Mitch with resigned amusement. All of the earlier hangriness - is that even a word? - starts to be flee with the bite of scone she takes. “No need. Good, but a little underwhelming. See you tomorrow.”

“Oh shit,” Mitch mutters under his breath as she departs. Connor’s frozen again, but this time it’s because he’s stunned. A little enraged. A lot intrigued.

And mostly, he’s fucking  _ determined. _

“Underwhelming,” he repeats as he stomps back towards the kitchen. “Underwhelming  _ my ass.” _

* * *

_ Kouign amman _

Connor is not simply an okay pastry chef. If he’d really wanted, he could’ve absolutely run his own bakery with the finest pastries and given Dominique Ansel a run for his money. He did the whole fine-dining restaurant thing after culinary school, thanks. He doesn’t need  _ Sugar + Beans _ . He  _ does _ need Mitch and Dylan though and he 100% prefers co-running the place. 

However. 

He’s not amazing because he takes criticism lying down. He’s amazing because he’s passionate, determined, stubborn and okay, a little petty.  _ A lot  _ petty if you’re asking Dylan, but he and Connor are in a constant battle of who is the Most Petty. Dylan is biased. Connor is...probably biased. That’s not the point.

The point is that if someone -  _ anyone  _ \- calls something within his body of work  _ underwhelming _ , he’s going to take it to heart. Then he’s going to do everything in his power to prove them wrong. 

Twice over because it’s Jack saying it, and he definitely does not want her thinking anything he does is underwhelming. 

“Oh hell,” Dylan mutters, stopping in the doorway. Connor’s not paying much attention, the dough cold yet pliable beneath his fingers as he rolls it out with a pin. “I should have known it would be this bad when you were making the butter blocks last night.” Leaving him alone with mounds of butter to be shaped into five-by-five inch blocks, especially after what Mitch said happened? The customers might be delighted by the sheer amount of  _ patisserie _ , but that much  _ patisserie  _ is also a good way to indicate that Connor is in a Mood™.

Connor just grunts. “Last turn and then I’ll move on to the regular stuff.”

“Have you been here all night? Like, did you go upstairs at all? Never mind, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.” Dylan sighs, and reaches for one of the aprons on a hook. He rarely has to help Connor with the baking anymore (that’s why they have Brinksy), but sometimes needs must. “I got the chocolate chip muffins.”

Another grunt. That’s all right, Dylan knows better than to expect any conversation until the pastries are out. And maybe not even then.

He keeps an eye out as the dough goes back in the refrigerator and Connor starts on the scones - white chocolate raspberry, blueberry, and the infamous bacon cheddar chive. Luckily, scones are low-fuss and Connor has trays of them already in the oven by the time the pastry dough is ready. By that time, Dylan’s already finished the muffins and is washing the dishes.

Still, he hovers, breathing a soft sigh of relief when some of the tension leaks from Connor’s shoulders as he rolls out the dough, cuts it into squares, and sprinkles them with sugar before carefully folding them into larger muffin tins. 

Kouign amman, Dylan realizes. He’s looking to impress. It’s going to be a show, and there’s no way he’s going to miss it.

Mitch snickers at him as he parks himself at the stools, pitching his voice so it’s high and creaky. “What brings you out of your cave, honey?”

“Oh, just a change of scenery, dear,” Dylan croaks back, playing along with Mitch’s old married couple schtick.

“You’re not subtle at all, Dyls,” Connor mutters as Mitch passes over his usual americano, complete with an exaggerated shuffle.

“I’m not trying to be,” he sing-songs back even though he totally was. He doesn’t have to wait long for the show to start, though. The bell over the door jingles as Connor’s setting out some of the day’s delicious treats, and he goes ramrod straight while Mitch steps up to the register.

Dylan’s never actually seen Connor’s crush until now. She’s tall, probably Connor’s height but even taller due to high heels that click like gunshots on the concrete floor. A solid build that says she works out, bundled into a neat navy suit that Mitch would know more about than he would. Blonde, curly hair pulled into a braid, but a few curls have already popped out. A nice face, objectively, even though her brows are pulled together and the corners of her lips are pointed downward.

She places a Bruins to-go tumbler (ew) on the counter with more force than necessary. “Butterscotch latte, please,” she rumbles to Mitch in a voice that’s low like thunder and not really asking.

Looks like she could kill you, and could definitely kill you - yeah, that’s Connor’s type.

Speaking of Connor, he’s already sliding a bag over to her. “Kouign amman. See if  _ that’s _ underwhelming.”

It’s said with enough of a challenge that those downturned corners turn up, even as she steps over to the side of the counter closer to Dylan. “Why the hell not?” Gold-painted fingertips pluck the pastry out, and she takes a delicate bite. Her eyes widen a little bit, the smirk sliding away.

Dylan can relate. Perfectly flaky, buttery layers with crunchy, caramelized sugar all around? It’s a religious experience, in his book.

“Huh. Wow.” She absentmindedly brushes a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth and he swears that he can actually see Connor’s knees go weak. “That’s definitely not underwhelming. But,” she continues with a wicked grin, accepting her tumbler from Mitch. “I think you can do better. Thanks for the pick me up.”

Dylan has to give Connor props - he waits until Jack is out the door before he makes a strangled noise, banging his head against the counter until Mitch manages to slide a couple of napkins between them. Knowing Mitch, he’s more concerned about oily smudges on the marble than the state of Connor’s head. “Wow, and I thought the scone thing was bad.”

“Nah,” Dylan remarks, well-versed in Connor McDavid speak. He slips back into his grandpa voice. “He just doesn’t know whether he should be turned on or if he should kill her, pumpkin.”

Mitch flutters his eyelashes. “Oh darling, how romantic!”

“I’m right  _ here _ ,” Connor whisper-shouts.

* * *

_ Pain au chocolat _

This time, Connor’s ready. He saw Jack’s reaction to the kouign amman, the surprise and delight, the way she seemed to truly savor that first bite. Years of baking have given him a bit of an edge when it comes to figuring out what customers like and will come back for.

And well, if he wants Jack to keep coming back, what of it? He values return customers. If her return has more layers than an average customer, that’s between him and his ovens. 

The irritating part is that Connor knows he’s predictable; he has a type. It has nothing to do with her build or the piercing colour of her eyes and everything to do with the fact that he’s always had a weakness for people who challenge him. Sure, she’s attractive, but he’d known he was screwed from the moment she’d told him his scone was underwhelming. Challenging and competitive.

It’s why he likes baking, taking relatively few ingredients but with a few changes in technique, turning them into something unique and delicious in their own right. The  _ pain au chocolat  _ he’s making right now isn’t so different from the kouign amman - it’s the same flaky pastry base of yeasted dough folded with a block of butter, turned and rolled until there are 81 perfect layers - Connor knows, he’s counted.

But instead of cutting them into squares he cuts them in rectangles and sprinkles them with dark chocolate chunks before carefully rolling them up, placing them on a sheet, and brushing them with an egg wash so that they get perfectly golden and shiny in the oven.

He’s already planning for tomorrow as he preps the next few trays of  _ pain au chocolat -  _ maybe making a slight left turn into  _ sfogliatelle.  _ It’s the kind of challenge he treasures, the idea of rolling the dough phyllo-thin through a pasta machine before smearing it with lard and rolling it into its distinct lobster-tail shape. It would need something tart for the filling - passionfruit curd with pastry cream - in order to offset the richness of the pastry itself. He doesn’t always experiment much because repeat customers like what they like. But when inspiration strikes like this, it’s the perfect time to let loose a little. 

“Oooh, chocolate croissants!” Mitch chirps as he brings out the tray to the front.

“For the - Mitchy, they’re not chocolate croissants, they’re  _ pain au chocolat _ . There’s a difference.”

He shrugs, a shit-eating grin playing over his lips. There are a number of topics that will get Connor riled up - Leafs vs. Bruins, anything hockey, really - and pastry nomenclature. “It’s croissant dough with chocolate.”

“It’s the  _ shape _ ,” Connor shoots back, exasperated. “To call it a chocolate croissant, you’d have to shape it like a croissant. It’s not, is it? Therefore, it’s  _ pain au chocolat _ .” He can’t count the number of times he’s walked into a cafe and asked for that pastry, only to be met with a blank look and a chirp of, “Oh, you mean the chocolate croissant?” No. He really means the  _ pain au chocolat,  _ because  _ that’s what it is. _

A snort directs their attention forward and - crap. It’s Jack. Connor wasn’t even expecting her today, even if he had thought about her while rolling out and shaping dough. “Didn’t know you had such passionate opinions on pastry.”

“Please, it’s  _ Davo _ ,” Mitch snorts. “How can he not?”

Jack smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Connor scans her from head to toe and yeah, something’s off. “One of the  _ pain au chocolat _ , then.” No snarky comment, no teasing. Suddenly, Connor’s glad he made them today, and that he used the really good dark chocolate. Anyone who’s having a bad day needs good chocolate, and something tells him she needs it, even as her eyebrow arches. 

“Chocolate? Stereotypical assumption.” 

He freezes, the pastry suspended over the bag. He considers his options for longer than he should to avoid any and all chirping. “Would you prefer something else?” he asks, too careful, too deliberate. 

She pauses then, and there’s something in the air, charged and confrontational and yet neither of those things. “Will I like it?” 

“Yes.” There isn’t a seconds’ hesitation in his answer.

“I’ll take it.” 

It’s only a split second of satisfied zing that races through Connor’s blood. Nothing about this feels right, nothing feels okay. It’s not settled by the way she wanders to an armchair by the window instead of heading back out into the sunny air. She stays for the entirety of the pastry. then doesn’t so much as wave as she leaves. Connor sighs, discontent and itchy between his shoulder blades. It’s enough irritated energy that Mitch sends him out to collect her garbage. 

He’ll never know what makes the black marks catch his gaze, but on her napkin in black ink in sharp, spiky writing is,  _ Not bad, Davo.  _

There’s a little smiley face too. He can almost feel the hesitation in her hand before she’d decided to leave the tiny colon and closed parenthesis.

* * *

_ Baklava _

The dough tears on him, and it’s not even the first time. “Remind me again,” he all but snarls through gritted teeth, “Why I decided to do this?”

“You’re a glutton for punishment,” Brinksy remarks - far too cheerfully, in Connor’s opinion, but then he only has the Brooklyn blackout cake and and their three cookies of the day (double chocolate chunk, Funfetti, and cranberry-lemon polenta) to work on. “As if the  _ sfogliatelle  _ wasn’t hard enough.” He pauses for a moment as Connor continues to swear at the dough. “But it’s mostly because Mehmet finally gave you his grandmother’s recipe and you want to do it justice.”

Connor blows out a breath and even though he knows the exact reason he’s trying the recipe today of all days, he says, “Yeah, that’s it.” 

Growing up, he’d always found the dessert to be far too sweet - until he visited Istanbul after culinary school. Then, he hadn’t been able to get enough of those delicate layers, the crunchy, earthy element of the pistachios, and the floral, sticky sweetness of the orange blossom syrup. He’s been pestering Mehmet, the owner of the Middle Eastern grocery down the street, for his grandmother’s recipe ever since  _ Sugar + Beans  _ opened. It’s taken all this time (and countless cookies and pastries) for him to agree so yes, the last thing Connor wants to do is fuck things up.

The thought of tradition is what keeps him going. Baklava has been made hundreds, thousands of times over the years by countless hands. Those hands have turned sticky, almost impossible to work dough to something satiny and smooth and paper-thin. If they could do it, so can he.

So Connor takes a breath and starts again.

With sheer determination - and probably sheer dumb luck - the dough doesn’t tear on the next go-around. He carefully cuts and layers eight sheets, each brushed with clarified butter, before laying down a cup of bright green chopped pistachios. Six sheets, pistachios, another six sheets, pistachios, and then finally, the last layer of ten sheets. A quick press to release any air pockets, a final brush of clarified butter, and then Connor cuts them into their distinct diamond shape before popping them in the oven.

While they bake, he makes the orange blossom syrup - not too thin, or it’ll make the layers soggy, but thick enough to act as a glue once the baklava comes out of the oven. After that, it’s the day’s muffins and scones.

In a break from tradition, Jack is sitting at one of their tables by the time Connor can come out of the kitchen. Her usual tumbler is sitting beside her, and her brow is furrowed as she types away on her laptop. She glances up, blinking, as he deposits a plate in front of her, a single baklava winking like a little jewel box on it. “You have got to stop giving your stuff away for free, isn’t that bad business?”

Connor shrugs and watches her reach out to tug the plate closer to her. “Not if it ensures returning customers, right?”

The laugh that falls from her lips seems to surprise both of them. She pushes her hair out of her face, and glances down at the pastry. “Baklava? Doesn’t seem your style.”

“Try it.”

Those eyes of hers seem to see everything, sharpening as they look him over - the tense set to his shoulders, the way he wants to shift his weight from one foot to another but just sways slightly in place. “Sure. But only if you sit.”

So he sits, watching with bated breath as she uses the fork to cut a small bite. Lets out that breath as she goes back for more, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. If he kissed her now, she would taste like pistachios and orange blossom syrup. He blinks away the image. She’s a customer and crush or no crush, it’s not his place. At least until she gives him some sort of sign. 

“Hey, you with me?” 

Absolutely not, and less so in the face of real conversation. He’s traded barbs and orders with her, but as he watches her cut into the baklava again, he certainly doesn’t feel like that’s what she wants. 

“I asked where you trained.” 

“Toronto.” 

She waves at her Bruins cup. “Ah, that’s why you wince every time you see this.”

He offers her a shrug, completely unapologetic. “Old habits.”

“Old rivalries, you mean.” Something flashes in her eyes and she releases a little hum. “Tell me about it - culinary school, I mean - while I eat your food.”

Somehow, conversation flows easily between the two of them - she’s genuinely interested in what he says, paying attention even as, yes, she stuffs her face. And Connor? Well. He’s eager for every tidbit she’s willing to give him.

And he finally solves the mystery of her job. “Judge’s assistant, for now. Basically I give them all the basics of the trials being presented for them.” She shrugs, mischief lighting up her entire face. “With a nudge in the right direction, sometimes.”

“Is that what you want to do then? Be a judge?”

“Maybe. There are a lot of possibilities, and I like to keep my options open.”

The voice in his head that sounds annoyingly like Mitch pipes up with something truly ridiculous, something about keeping dating options open for him. Connor tells his brain to shut up.

Her ringtone goes off - the Imperial March. “Looks like I’m being summoned,” she mutters, a blush rising to her cheeks. Is she embarrassed at being caught being nerdy? Connor’s so endeared he kind of wants to fling himself into the sun. “Thanks for the baklava.”

“Anytime,” but his words are lost in the whirlwind of her rushing out the door.

* * *

_ Hong Kong Egg Tarts _

Clarissa cracks her knuckles and Connor winces at the sound. “All right, are you ready for the best egg tart recipe ever?”

Clarissa is a much-needed ray of sunshine at  _ Sugar + Beans _ , knowledgeable about coffee but especially tea. Dylan’s already had to place new orders for loose-leaf teas and new infusers (“No offense, but tea bags? Tea needs room to breathe while it’s steeping!”) because their customer base really likes the way she does tea.

When she found out that Connor puts everyone’s favorite dessert item on the menu, she was quick to volunteer her mother’s recipe for Hong Kong egg tarts as her contribution.

“So, how is this different to the Portuguese egg tart?” he asks as they start on a rough puff pastry - not as flaky and delicate as a true puff pastry for croissants, but not as dense and biscuit-like as a shortcrust pie dough.

“Portuguese tarts are brûléed - all brown and caramelized on top, right? That’s more Macau-style, since it was a former Portuguese colony. Hong Kong-style is British in style - yay, more colonialism! They like a smoother, more glassy custard,” she explains, her hands capable as they add cold chunks of butter to the flour mixture.

The dough rests, gets turned, and rests once more while they make the filling: sugar, water, eggs, evaporated milk, and one vanilla bean, scraped. The dough is cut and placed in tartlet pans, then filled with the strained custard mixture and into the oven they go.

“You’re welcome back here anytime,” Connor tells her as they wash up. She has a steady hand and good pastry skills, even though she was hired expressly for front-of-house duties.

Clarissa beams, touched. Everyone knows that the kitchen is Connor’s domain, and he doesn’t allow just anyone into that space. Mitch, for instance, is expressly banished because he has a tendency to set things on fire. And eat all the pastry scraps he can find. “Aw, thanks boss-man.” The grin instantly slides into something teasing. “It would be a shame if Jack decided these were her favorites though - since you’ve been trying to woo her with pastry and all.”

Connor sputters and she laughs gaily, skipping over to the ovens as the timer goes off. And he hopes that’s the end of it, but wishes and horses and all that, because Clarissa all but pounces on Jack the moment she comes in. “Jack! Come try the egg tarts - they’re my mom’s recipe! I showed Davo how to make them.”

“Okay,” Jack agrees, soft and indulgent in a way he’s only ever seen her be with Clarissa. “But only if you let me pay for it this time, especially since I have Reino over here. He can afford it, Mr. Rising Star.”

The man standing next to her snorts. “You say that like ADAs are making bank and you’re wrong.” Connor’s heart may or may not fall to his feet with all the conclusions he’s suddenly jumping to. He’s quietly handsome, dressed in a sharp suit and hair that seems only slightly too long for a lawyer.

“But you can afford a pastry or two, right?” Clarissa asks, all sunshine and sugar sprinkles. Connor’s only slightly mollified by Mr. ADA’s slightly dazed double-take. Clarissa’s smile is definitely a weapon that she puts to good use.

“Um. Yeah. Definitely.” He reaches across the counter to shake her hand and Connor has to re-evaluate those conclusions. “I’m Sam.”

Clarissa’s smile softens, her eyes bright. “Clarissa.”

Jack’s definitely smirking, and Connor’s  _ almost  _ relieved enough to cover both of their coffees and egg tarts but - well. He’s kind of petty and lets Sam pay for them.

The two of them settle at the stools, close enough for both Connor and Clarissa to watch, hawk-eyed, as they try the tarts.

“So, what do you think?” Clarissa demands impatiently, bouncing on her toes. “Totally your favorite, right Jack?”

Jack laughs, and the look she sends Connor’s way is knowing. “Pretty close, but not quite.”

She pouts, but Connor’s already planning. Maybe  _ dobos torte -  _ ultra thin layers of sponge cake sandwiched with bittersweet chocolate buttercream, topped with caramel. Jack had really liked the  _ pain au chocolat,  _ so maybe chocolate is the way to go-

Oh. He’s  _ definitely _ trying to woo Jack with pastry.

* * *

_ +Nutella-stuffed chocolate chip cookies _

He gives her the cookies on a whim. They’re one of the simplest thing he makes for  _ Sugar & Beans _ , the kind of sweet treat he can practically make in his sleep. Sugar, butter, vanilla, flour, egg, chocolate chips and a surprise centre filling - Nutella - and into the oven they go. 

He doesn’t expect anything to come of it. He absolutely does not expect Jack to be the reason the bell chimes five minutes before closing. 

“Hi,” Connor greets, surprise loud in his voice. “You’re back.” 

“What the hell did you give me?”

He outright startles. “What?” 

“The cookies. What the hell were they?”

Connor’s hands clench reflexively on the counter. He’s so nervous. She’s never reacted to anything he’s made her like this. It’s confrontational. “Nutella-stuffed chocolate chip.”

She makes a sound that Connor can’t parse. He also doesn’t get the chance. The next thing he registers, she’s got her hand fisted in his black  _ Sugar + Beans  _ polo and she’s yanking him across the counter. Nothing about the kiss is close to what he’d imagined - their mouths crash together, teeth clacking somewhat painfully, and the counter’s digging into his stomach. He freezes, which is the worst, and it’s awkward, which is not the right way he’d ever wanted the first kiss to feel. 

Jack pulls away and Connor can tell she thinks maybe if he doesn’t say something now, he’ll never see her again. 

“Stay there.” 

“What?”

Connor doesn’t answer, just slips around the counter until he’s standing in front of her. “Okay, do it again.”

“What?” But this time, there’s a level of amusement in her voice, layered with the confusion. 

“I wasn’t ready,” he answers, his hands reaching for her without input from his brain. “So you should kiss me again.” 

She stares at him, like it’s a struggle to comprehend what Connor is fairly certain was completely understandable English. He can’t help the little huff he releases before the hand that’s snaked around her elbow is pulling her in, his other hand cupping her jaw to tilt her head just right. 

This kiss is much more what Connor had imagined. He knows what he’s doing, it isn’t the awkward clash of mouths. Everything about this kiss is slower, sweeter, more exploratory. He feels Jack’s hand clench where his apron’s tied around his waist and slides his hand around her head in answer. Her eyes flutter when he pulls away and he can’t help the smirk of satisfaction that curves his lips. 

“So, cookies, huh?” 

“What?” 

God, she even sounds dazed. Connor cannot help the way his mind jumps to what she might look like, sound like, sprawled over his sheets. “It took cookies?” 

Jack blinks once, slowly, and it seems to be what gets her brain back on line. “Is that why you’ve been giving me free pastries? Because you like me?” 

“Dylan’s always said my love language is pastry.” He regrets the admission as soon as he makes it, his face flaming as hers turns gleeful.

“Lucky me,” she breathes, and tugs him in once more.


End file.
